A French contemporary, commenting upon the fact that the sudden appearance of cold weather in London is accompanied by an equally sudden disappearance of cats, demonstrates the cause of this coincidence.
What boots it, Sir, to boggle at
The truth? So be it said
Quite candidly, our Thomas-cat,
McCorquodale, is dead.
When winds from East and North conspire
To freeze the very breath,
To you it means the mere desire
To skate or sit too near the fire,
To him 'twas sudden death.
The cat that leaves the hearth and strays
Abroad is over-bold;
McCorquodale would go his ways,
Despite the frost. To use a phrase
Belittled in these careless days,
He caught his death of cold.
'Twas not from native lack of fur
That his demise was such.
We did not see the end occur,
But, though it be to cast a slur
Upon humanity, infer
(And you will catch our meaning, Sir)
He had a coat too much.
And now, when Northern winds are bluff
And veering to the East,
And Beauty shuns their rude rebuff
By hiding hands (and powder-puff)
Inside her Russian sable muff,
We tell ourselves, "Why, sure enough
There goes, disguised as better stuff,
McCorquodale deceased!"